


Murder On The Orient Express - Harry Potter Style

by goldenzingy46



Series: Tomarry Works [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Detective Tom Riddle, Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, M/M, Minor Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Revenge, Sane Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, slightly dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46
Summary: Detective Tom Riddle goes on holiday.A murder occurs.Heisa detective, after all...
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Harry Potter
Series: Tomarry Works [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091711
Comments: 30
Kudos: 64





	Murder On The Orient Express - Harry Potter Style

**Author's Note:**

> [Top7879](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Top7879) helped me plot this out, and whilst it's probably meandered away from the original plotline, it wouldn't be here without you. Much love <3
> 
> Thanks to [AdrianaSlytherin20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianaSlytherin20), my beta. I would be drowing in mistakes without you. :)

Tom walked down the platform, shoes clicking as he went. The detective job did not pay as well as he would have liked, no matter how exclusive he became, but he'd _finally_ saved up enough money to get a holiday.

The sleeper train was a shining black, decked out with gold edges, staff waiting on every entrance, so it seemed to be worth it.

"Tom Riddle," he said, not bothering to greet the porter, handing over his ticket.

The porter tripped.

"Sorry sir," he said, green eyes shining earnestly. "Right this way, please."

Tom scowled. Maybe the service wasn't as good as originally expected.

He stepped onto the train, glad that this, at least, seemed the elegant chic he'd believed it to be: soft cream silk for the walls and shining black marble on the floor.

"You're in room six, sir, if you'll follow me."

Ah yes, the incompetent staff member. Pretty, though.

He followed him to a door, opening it to reveal a spacious cabin, easily big enough to encompass three beds, although he'd booked it for himself.

"Thank you-" Tom squinted at the name tag. "-Potter. Your services are no longer required."

Potter looked almost worried. "But, sir, I haven't shown you were the dining room is, or-"

Tom cut him off. "I have a map, thank you very much. You are dismissed."

He bit his lip before scurrying off. Tom hoped the rest of the staff were more competent.

Tom had already memorised the map - it wasn't hard with an eidetic memory, though - and he had some time to kill before dinner. Perhaps he shouldn't have sent the porter away. He _was_ fun to play with.

Tom figured he'd finish reading his book, Murder on the Orient Express - a classic, of course, Tom was always one for irony - before going to the dining hall and familiarising himself with the guests. They'd probably all be there by then, and Tom's detective mode (there wasn't, unfortunately, an off switch) insisted he find out as much about them as possible.

***

Tom strolled into the dining compartment, pleasantly surprised by how beautiful it looked.

The staff had organised it mostly by rooms, but those that were by themselves had been grouped into tables of varying sizes, which gave Tom an easy excuse to mingle.

Mingling was not something Tom enjoyed. He hated listening to the pathetic thoughts of imbeciles, and that's really all socialising was. He simply wanted to know things, to learn secrets and to _use_ them, blackmail, perhaps, and for that, _mingling_ was a requirement.

The first woman he spoke to was surrounded by a mass of untameable hair.

"Hermione Granger," she greeted.

He shook her hand. "Tom Riddle."

"It's _such_ a pleasure to be here! I'm a travelling historian - librarian when I'm not - and to be on one of these in between my search for rare and ancient books is a blessing. You would not *believe* how horrendous some of the hotel conditions in my line of work are, honestly!"

 _I think I'd actually like her if she could keep her mouth shut for ten seconds_ , he thought, punctuating it with a glare.

"Pleasure. Private detective, on holiday."

That appeared to be the wrong thing to say.

Hermione lit up like a light. "Ooh, what's it like? You simply _have_ to tell me everything. I've met a few people in the police force before, but never a private detective. How exclusive are you? How much money do you make? What kind of cases do you solve? How legal is it? I've done a bit of research, you see, and some detectives work _with_ the police and some work regardless of them, and then there are those that work directly against the police, going out of their way to hide evidence from them and I just find it _fascinating_!"

She paused for breath, and Tom seized his chance, rapidly adjusting his opinion of the woman. Pathetic.

"I think you'll find I _have_ to tell you nothing," he said, frostily.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, apparently unfazed by Tom's curtness. "I've been told I'm a bit much sometimes. No social skills, y'know? You don't have to answer."

He seethed silently, before gathering himself up and responding.

"My work is perfectly legal, thank you very much," he began. "I make a lot of money from it, and I solve all sorts. Yes, that includes murder cases. People don't tend to come to me for smaller things as I am _very_ exclusive, and far too expensive for the likes of _you_."

He finished this looking down his nose, hoping to dampen her enthusiasm. He did not.

She laughed. "Wow! What's your solve record like? I imagine it must be pretty impressive for that kind of money.

She'd asked the worst question she could possibly ask.

"My solve rate is one hundred percent." he snapped, trying not to drudge up old memories.

"Oh, that's incredible! I didn't realise that was possible."

"For your information, I am incredible."

And with that, Tom excused himself from the situation.

Because the truth was, it was not as flawless and pristine as he would have liked it to be. There was a singular blemish on it marked 'Pettigrew's slimy rat face' and yes, Tom was still bitter about it.

He'd _caught_ him, his evidence was flawless, he simply hadn't known about the depth of his connections with the mob, who had subsequently gotten him out at the trial.

Tom's good name had been dragged through the mud as he'd doggedly chased after the Pettigrew lead that seemingly led nowhere. Tom knew better, and he'd been right, but with those goddamn _connections_ it would never be proved.

His reputation had taken a swan dive after that, and it still hadn't fully recovered.

He doubted he'd get a call for another high-profile murder case any time soon.

As it was, there was nothing Tom could do but try to fix up his name and hope Pettigrew got caught up in some other kind of dirt and his reputation would shoot upwards, and that was why he'd taken the holiday he had.

Breathing space.

***

Tom continued meeting everyone, speaking to Lord Sirius Black first.

"Tom Riddle. Detective, on holiday. You?"

He didn't even get the man's full attention.

"Lord Black. Sirius." he said, distractedly, and Tom attempted to draw him back to the conversation at hand.

"And this is...?"

"Hmm? Oh, this is the sophisticated Lady Bella."

Said Lady smiled at him, smile too large and rather absent. Rude.

Sirius saw something, starting. "I'm sorry...?"

"Riddle. Tom Riddle," he repeated, irritated.

"Sorry, Riddle, but we really must be going."

He grabbed Bella's arm and dragged her off, leaving Tom standing by himself.

There was something wrong with those two, and no, Tom was not just talking about how they'd ignored him and then up and left. That had nothing to do with it.

(Okay, maybe it had a little to do with it.)

He turned to speak to the next set of people, a ginger couple, who, upon second glance, seemed more like siblings than a couple.

"Tom Riddle, pleasure to meet you." He said, holding out his hand.

The hand that grasped his was somewhat sweaty and slightly unpleasant. "Ron Weasley."

He offered a charming smile. "And who may this lovely lady be?"

Said lady held out a hand of her own, which he shook readily.

"I'm Ginny," she said, at the same time Ron said, "Don't talk about my sister like that!"

Ah. Siblings, then. He'd been right.

"I meant no offence, only basic manners." Tom couldn't help but rub in his rather rude response to his probing statement.

Ron scowled at him for the slight.

"Ignore my idiot brother," Ginny said. "I'm a journalist, and it's a _pleasure_ to meet you, too."

His mental tally gained a black mark as she said that. Journalists and reporters, no matter how harmless and friendly they may seem, were bad news. Always.

"And where do you work?" he said, turning to Ron. "I wouldn't have thought you to be someone who could afford somewhere like this."

Ron glared at him. "I work in retail, and I don’t like what you’re implying."

"That does nothing but prove my point."

"Listen, mate, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I got on this train fair and square. I put a little money into the lottery, won a few thousand, and took me and my sister here."

Tom rose an elegantly sculpted eyebrow. "That sounds... _likely_."

But he had the information he needed, so he turned on his heel and left.

***

Tom could see that there was very little time left until dinner, which allowed him just enough time to talk to the Malfoys, who seemed to be the stereotypical 'rich family'. He hoped there'd be more depth to them than that, but they did seem fairly shallow.

It was always a shame when potentially interesting suspects turned out to be as plain as a board, not that anyone here was a suspect. He should probably stop treating them as such.

Then again, if they were suspects, he would not have been this polite.

There were four in the party of Malfoys, three of them with the hereditary ice-blonde hair - which made less sense, seeing as Narcissa surely married into the family - and one with black hair and her arm hooked through Draco's. Fiancée, then.

"Tom Riddle," he said, holding out his hand to Lucius. "Pleasure to meet you."

Lucius Malfoy eyed him with what was almost _distain_ before shaking his hand.

"Lucius Malfoy," he said. "This is my wife, Narcissa-"

Narcissa offered up a demure smile that was all too sharp at the edges. Not a woman to be messed with, then.

"-my son, Draco, and his fiancée, Astoria Greengrass."

"Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy, younger Malfoy, Miss Greengrass," he said, as courteously as he could. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, this and that," Narcissa said, eyes following his own. A warning not to probe too deep. Well, two could play at that game.

"Miss Greengrass," he says, ignoring the warning daggers Narcissa is sending him. "You simply _must_ tell me how you met Draco. I'd _love_ to hear all about it."

He thought he'd laid it on too thick, for a second, but Astoria opens up to him delightedly. It's clear she rather adores the young Malfoy and goes on a long spiel about their time in Paris.

She was just drawing to a close when Narcissa insists that they ought to get seated for dinner, and Tom makes sure that Astoria knows she is welcome to come and visit him any time.

Everyone sits down at their seats, those that Tom _hasn't_ spoken to thankfully sitting at table four, like him. Those on the table with him are a black-haired man with a crooked nose who seems to be carrying his own dark cloud around with him, a pleasant but stern looking elderly woman, and a very old man with a long beard.

Tom dislikes the latter on sight.

He was then, of course, surprised by the sight of two more people seating themselves at table one, and he's sure he'd have seen them come in if they hadn't come in whilst he was reading in his cabin.

Before he could ponder more on that, however, there's an apologetic squeak and a rat-faced man runs in late.

It's Peter goddamn Pettigrew, and Tom has never been more angry in his life.

***

Tom is aware that he wasted time glaring at that human stain, yes. He is also aware that those around him have yet to speak, concentrating on their food. He is _also_ aware that he is not the only person glaring at Pettigrew, which is a particularly interesting turn.

Himself, the waiter, and Lord Sirius Black.

The waiter is, coincidentally, the clumsy 'porter' from earlier. This place is rich enough to not be understaffed, so what is Potter playing at?

Lord Sirius Black was already on his watchlist. He seems to have climbed a little higher.

The greasy looking man beside him busied himself with glaring at everyone and everything. This was the perfect opportunity to strike up conversation.

"Tom Riddle," he greeted, the charming smile once again pasted on his lips. "Holidaying Detective."

"Snape." the man grunted, scowling. "Chemist."

"I imagine it would be hard to get on a place like _this_ with a job like that," Tom said, still smiling.

Finding out how people reacted to jibes was a simple character tell.

Snape's eye twitched.

"For a regular chemist, perhaps."

"But not for you?" Tom probed.

He snapped. "I _create_ new formulas. Make better things. Make it better than the dunderheaded _imbeciles_ before me!"

Tom sat back, satisfied with his undoing of the previously composed man. Snape's dark eyes glittered with malice, but there was a spark. The creativity, the intelligence, and something bitter and regretful cloaking it.

Curious.

"Well, that was interesting," the woman at the table said. Tom was ashamed to say he startled, having forgotten about the other participants at the table whilst listening to Snape. Unacceptable. It was almost like just starting out again when he wasn't exclusive and messed up frequently.

Disgraceful.

“Hello, ma'am," he said. He may be curt sometimes, but he did _know_ how to be polite. He wasn't stupid. "And who may this lovely lady be?"

Unlike most people, she did not blush. Damn.

"Madame Pomfrey," she said. Tom knew that name. Why did he know that name? "But you can call me Poppy."

He offered up a flirtatious smile, none of his inner turmoil showing on his face. "And what do you do, then, Poppy?"

She met his smile with a smirk that frustrated him. She knew what he was missing, goddammit! "I'm a doctor."

Tom made the decision to check his cold case files that he'd taken with him on holiday, of course, because Tom Riddle was the biggest workaholic around - he had the highest solve rates for a _reason_ , you know.

"And here I thought doctors weren't paid too much," he teased. "They must have been inspired by your beautiful face."

To her credit, she didn't blush. "Oh, my job pays _far_ more than you think it does."

That's when the old man made a noise. A very _annoying_ noise, sounding like a cross between a Minecraft villager and an odd snore.

Tom's dislike increased by a solid one hundred percent.

"And who are you?" Tom said, rudely.

He never said he would be nice to those he hated.

"I am Dumbledore," the old man proclaimed, like this was some grand gesture and they should all drop to their knees.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Just Dumbledore? No first name?"

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

Everyone on the table did a double take.

But before Tom could question him some more, dinner arrived, and a certain green-eyed waiter headed over to his table.

***

_His arms shook. He never expected to see the squirrelly like features and ratty hair of this man, this murderer ever again, and not like this. Not in a fancy sleeper train restaurant, ordering food like nothing was wrong._

_Like he didn't kill them._

***

Potter came over, placing steaming dishes of a rather extravagant looking meal.

“For your starter, sir, toasted baguette slices with cream cheese and thin-slice salmon, topped with fresh parsley.”

Tom smiled at him, the porter that was not a porter, hoping to see him flinch.

He did, but Potter seemed distracted. Nervous.

Madame Poppy Pomfrey and her ominous smiles. Sirius Black and his dash from the room. Bellatrix Black and her vacant eyes. Potter, the porter who was not a porter. Peter Pettigrew and what he _did_ , Narcissa and her cold eyes and reluctance to talk about family. Snape and his burst of passion. Ginny and her journalism, Ron, and his mysterious lottery win. Dumbledore and his many names. The two that he hadn't seen before - how did they get in?

Something was very, very wrong with everyone on this train.

***

“Your main course – semi-rare deer steak with rosemary and red wine sauce, a side of wedged potatoes and green beans, roasted with a dash of spiced oil.”

Tom flagged down the waiter. “Another glass, if you please?”

Potter, despite being distracted, still produced the wine bottle with a flourish. “One glass of Château Lafite for you, sir.”

***

He'd discovered that the people who'd come in late were the Black family's gardener and maid, which meant they'd have come in with them but not had the luxury of coming in earlier, hence Tom's confusion. He imagined they were the staples to the falling apart Black family, and with a quick glance over at the resident journalist, he could see that Ginny thought so too.

The beginnings of a scandal were underway, and he hoped it would stop Ginny from hounding him about his own.

Dessert was served, baklava, and Tom ate his slowly, watching the others.

They seemed to simply be conversing with those around them, but you never know when something worthwhile of observation might happen.

***

Nothing worthwhile of observation happened.

People were beginning to trickle out of the dining car, heading to their compartments before they turned in for the night.

Tom's logical brain reminded him that he was on holiday, and that there was no crime to solve, but he still couldn't help feeling disappointed when nothing happened.

Well, disappointed before he heard the scream.

***

_Peter sees him, and freezes. His eyes widen minutely, excusing himself, scurrying back out to his compartment like the rat he is._

_His lips tighten._

***

"MURDER! MURDER ON THE TRAIN!"

People burst out of their compartments, looking at the hysterical woman on the ground, mouths open in shock.

A man with neatly styled hair stepped forward. "Ma'am?"

She grasped onto his arm like a lifeline, point a shaking finger at compartment 008. "I- I went in there, to, to clean and-" she gasped. "He was- he was- he was dead!"

Time seemed to stop.

_A murder._

Exactly what a small part of Tom wanted, a chance to restore his reputation, solving a murder whilst on holiday, seemingly selflessly, to make them forget about the Pettigrew Trials a few years before.

He pushed past the man who'd addressed the woman, ignoring his splutter as Tom knocked his ostentatious lime-green bowler hat to the ground.

"I'm a detective. Do you mind telling me what happened?"

**Author's Note:**

> You could... poke your head into my [Discord server](https://discord.gg/37bXdGW)? I don't bite (much)!
> 
> Alternately, you could pop into my mess of a Tumblr [here](https://goldenzingy46.tumblr.com/), or my writing Tumblr [here](https://goldenzingy46butwriteblr.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments and kudos sustain me :)
> 
> [for bribe related reasons, i ask you to go and have a look at user [alfisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfisha)'s fics, and they are a damn good writer]


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